


Desired Result

by stephanericher



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe - Baseball, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-31
Updated: 2017-07-31
Packaged: 2018-12-09 10:11:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11667030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: Shuuzou takes a little bit of time just so he can watch Tatsuya warm up, admire that sweet knuckler when he doesn’t have to worry about trying to hit it (rare, except when one of them’s on the wrong coast and Shuuzou can catch the Nats on some platform or another, and it’s bullshit to compare his tiny phone screen to Tatsuya right in front of him).





	Desired Result

Shuuzou lifts off his mask; he doesn’t need to stand to throw down to third but it’s good to get up from where he’s been crouching in the dirt, air out his face and wipe off his brow. It’s not that hot today, but it’s humid as fuck, and while he’s not really all that attached to LA he can appreciate the dry heat there for what it is, a suitable alternative to this. He’s got a feeling that Tatsuya, walking up to the batter’s box, has something similar on his mind. He’s been watching Tatsuya pitch from the dugout, the sweat pouring from his brow, the damp spot on his grey uniform pants where he’d wiped his palm too many times attempting to correct his grip (and it’s worked; Shuuzou can catch a knuckleball just fine but hitting it on a day like today when it’s dancing in the still air is still fucking impossible). Tatsuya catches Shuuzou’s eye but gives him no extra time to wipe his face before stepping into the box; Shuuzou sighs and jams the mask down over his face. He signs for a fastball.

The bases are empty; Tatsuya’s free to swing away (not that he probably wouldn’t be; even a few years removed from his pitching Silver Slugger he puts up a steadier average than a large chunk of Shuuzou’s teammates who nominally get paid to hit). He watches the first pitch sail by his knees for a called strike; with him that never comes free but it’s an advantage Shuuzou’s going to take. He watches Tatsuya set up before deciding on the next pitch, the smoothness of his stance, straight by the book but there’s a reason it’s the one they teach, though that still belies the smoothness in his actual swing, the pop in his bat. Shuuzou calls for a curve, not thinking too much about the shape of Tatsuya in front of him, the pants just tight enough to show off his legs and ass, those biceps out from under his sleeves.

The pitch comes in but it’s in the dirt; Shuuzou blocks it but takes a little time getting to it; on the mound Sanchez is giving him a look as if to say he’d meant to do that. Tatsuya never chases low, though, and it’s not where Shuuzou had set up. Shuuzou calls for another curve, give Sanchez a chance before he overcompensates. That curve drops a little early but maybe not too early; the bat’s still on Tatsuya’s shoulder and the umpire calls ball two. Shit. Shuuzou hurls it back, maybe a little too hard; Tatsuya looks back at him, turning his head far enough so that Shuuzou can see his eye. Yeah, okay. Shuuzou calls for another fastball; the pitch comes in and Tatsuya immediately drops into a bunt.

Carter at third is caught flat-footed; he almost stumbles forward and that’s the direction of Tatsuya’s bat; Shuuzou’s already standing by the time he makes contact (if he’d missed, there’s no one on; who gives a shit if the ball goes to the backstop) but the ball dies perfectly between home and third and Tatsuya’s got the advantage of batting lefty and being halfway out of the box by the time the ball gets down in the dirt. Tatsuya’s not particularly fast, but by the time Shuuzou picks up the ball he’s got no chance and he’s not going to throw it away.

At least they won’t let Tatsuya steal; the Nats need his arm (especially because it’s only the fifth, their bullpen sucks, and they’re clinging to a 1-0 lead). He might do it anyway, but he doesn’t get the chance to when the next batter grounds into an easy double play on the second pitch to end the half and bring the Mets back up. Shuuzou’s up second; he’s already taking off his shin guards by the time he reaches the dugout, taking a little bit of time just so he can watch Tatsuya warm up, admire that sweet knuckler when he doesn’t have to worry about trying to hit it (rare, except when one of them’s on the wrong coast and Shuuzou can catch the Nats on some platform or another, and it’s bullshit to compare his tiny phone screen to Tatsuya right in front of him). Shuuzou grabs his bat and helmet and heads to the on-deck circle; right now he does have to try and hit it again.

He swings at the third pitch, a little lower than he likes, but it doesn’t quite get out of the way and his contact is solid. He feels it off the bat, a little off the sweet spot, a nice hard liner right at the shortstop. Tatsuya will probably put that one in his own loss column (fucking arbitrary, moving goalposts) but you can’t argue with the results, out number two and the seven spot up next.

Tatsuya’s supposed to be up again in the seventh but he’s pulled for a pinch-hitter who Shuuzou’s pretty sure has a worse average, especially against righty pitching (not that he’s much of a believer in the gospel of righty-lefty matchups, but most managers are now). He glances over to the visitors’ dugout; he can’t see Tatsuya, probably sulking in the back. Tatsuya’s gotten a little wilder, and his pitch count’s up, but it’s not like a knuckleball puts that kind of stress on your arm; it’s not like he hasn’t gone 120 to take a lead to the eighth or ninth or all the way. Still, this is an opportunity, three innings and three cracks at swinging the lead back their way. First, they have to get out this guy, Lao, a scrawny middle infielder with no strike zone.

Sanchez freezes him with a change for strike three; two batters later the Mets are up again.

They get three runs in the bottom of the eighth and hand the ball to their underworked (as of late) closer; all Shuuzou’s really got to do is call fastball-slider-fastball and the Nats go down easy. There’s never a good outcome to their matchups; someone always has to lose, but a game Tatsuya had had, another no-decision (sixth in a row he’s left with the lead, only one of which the team had managed to keep for him). People can say what they want about advanced stats, but there’s something about seeing the W next to Tatsuya’s name in the paper or on the computer screen, something that’s got to be reflected so many times over in Tatsuya’s mind.

Tomorrow’s another day game, Sunday; it’s the last before the Nats go back to Washington and the Mets host the Phillies for three; it means they’ve only got one more evening and night together. They both try not to talk about the game, Tatsuya a little bit quieter than usual but attempting not to dwell, whether it’s for Shuuzou’s sake or for his own (or both).

“I’ll be rooting for you tomorrow,” Tatsuya says.

“No you won’t.”

“Yeah, I will. If we score more runs, it’s not your fault.”

“What if I called the wrong pitch?”

“Fielding errors?” says Tatsuya. “Or maybe we get a little bit lucky, but you still go 3-for-3.”

Shuuzou hums; he doesn’t really want to think about hitting now (after yesterday’s dismal showing, including a strikeout on something he should have hit, he’s going to have to spend all morning practice in the cages and hitting’s always been his least favorite task). He wants to think about Tatsuya, the mirages created by his right arm, so ordinary-looking pressed against Shuuzou’s, or even not about baseball at all.

“Want to order in?” says Shuuzou. “We can get dumplings from that place you like.”

“Sure,” says Tatsuya, kissing him on the cheek, letting him change the subject.


End file.
